


The Modern Prometheus

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, F/F, Horror, M/M, Mild Gore, Stucky Scary Bang 2017, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 11:00:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12480048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Steve leaned heavily on the sink, closing his eyes in some vain hope that he would wake up. That he would open his eyes and see Bucky, trying to hide his worry behind a smile as he lovingly scolded him for running yet another fever and scaring the daylights out of him. But the horrified looks that the soldiers had given him, the snatches of Erskine’s speech that he caught, revealed the unfortunate truth: he, Steven Rogers, was a member of the living dead.





	The Modern Prometheus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [a_splash_of_stucky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_splash_of_stucky/gifts).



> Prompt by @splashofstucky on tumblr: In which Erskine = Dr Frankenstein. Project Rebirth essentially involves Steve getting sawn apart and remade in a manner similar to Frankenstein's monster. When he rescues Bucky from the POW camp, he is ashamed of his appearance, but Bucky assures him that he loves Steve no less.
> 
> Beta'd by @the-wandering-whumper, thanks Marie! <3
> 
> Spoilery warnings at the end.

Bucky made his way around the Stark Expo, his feet moving almost automatically. Occasionally, something would catch his eye and he would turn to point it out to Steve, only to be reminded of the despairingly empty spot beside him and the extra ticket lying heavy in his pocket.  He’d told himself that he would give it to some sad-looking kid who couldn’t afford the entrance fee, but some desperate, selfish hope made him cling onto it, like Steve would come running down the road, shirt untucked at one side and wheezing like an old bellows-

 _Steve_. Bucky’s heart seized painfully, sorrow making his face turn downwards and crumpling it up like discarded paper. Steve should’ve been here next to him, eyes wide with wonder as he munched on popcorn or laughed at some of the frankly ridiculous contraptions Howard Stark had dreamed up. Instead, he was under six feet of Brooklyn dirt and a pathetic-looking bouquet of flowers.

Gone, and he couldn’t even mourn him properly.

It was hardly unusual for two men to live together - after all, between his and Steve’s wages, they could barely feed themselves, let alone afford separate apartments. After Steve’s mother had died, Bucky had moved in to keep him in company and out of trouble. It seemed almost inevitable that their friendship had broadened to include something deeper. As long as they were careful around bars and kept their hands to themselves in public, they went unnoticed and unbothered. Steve, as per usual, was at times almost incandescent with fury that they had to hide their relationship, but Bucky had always been able to soothe him with gentle words and soft touches.  

An Army recruitment post caught Bucky’s eye, and he paused. He’d already gotten a few respectful nods at his uniform, a few covetous looks from women, but shipping out had seemed like a distant reality, even now. Steve had been livid when Bucky had been drafted, begged him not to go, but it wasn’t like there was anything holding him here any more.

“Excuse me, _mein freund_.” A soft clearing of a throat startled Bucky out of his remembrance, and he turned to see who had spoken. The man had a gentle, weathered face, frizzy white hair sprouting from the back of his head. His eyes were kind and sympathetic behind gold-rimmed glasses.

“I couldn’t help but notice, you look like a man who has lost something very dear.” His voice carried the thickness of a German accent, but instead of being harsh, it made him sound like somebody’s favorite Opa back home. Bucky half-nodded.

“Yeah - yeah. My, uh... my best friend, Steve. He was supposed to be here with me today.” Unconsciously, his hand went toward his pocket, where the ticket still lay.

“I’m very sorry for your loss. Tell me, what was this Steve like?” The man gestured towards a set of nearby steps, and they both sat down.

Bucky half-smiled in fond remembrance. “Steve was a fighter - not ‘cause he liked fighting, ya see. But anything he saw that wasn’t right, he’d be up in arms the minute he laid eyes on it. Always got the snot beat outta him, but he sure as hell tried his best.”

“If it’s not too personal, may I ask-?”

“Pneumonia. Five days ago. Couldn’t afford meds.” Bucky swallowed hard, remembering how weak Steve had been as he’d grasped his hand for the last time. He’d barely had the strength to curl his fingers, and was far past speaking, so Bucky had sat there holding his hand, futilely wiping at Steve’s nose and mouth as he listened to his rattling breaths get shallower and shallower. At least in his last few hours, he’d been asleep.

“I see.” A warm hand rested on Bucky’s shoulder. “What if I told you, there was a way you could see your friend again?”

Bucky snorted. “I’d say you’re crazy. I ain’t ever seeing him again - he was Catholic, so one of us is goin’ to the hot place.”

“Please, look at me.” Bucky turned his gaze, noticing for the first time that the man wore the white lab coat of a doctor. “What if I told you that it’s not too late for Steven? That there may be a way for him to walk amongst the living again?”

Bucky scoffed, but his heart twinged again. “You’ve been reading too many stories, Doc.”

“On the contrary - I have spent over twenty years studying the art of human resurrection. If it has been less than a week since his passing, I believe I can bring your friend back.”

It seemed impossible. And yet, Bucky found himself anxiously hanging on to the doctor’s every word. “With his family’s permission, of course.”

Bucky nodded. “It was just him and me - he’s got no family left.”

“Then tell me where he is buried,” the doctor said softly. “And when you return, your Steve will be waiting for you.”

Bucky considered, his gut churning and his heart in his mouth. Every instinct was screaming at him to walk away, to stop this man from doing something horrible to Steve’s body, but if he was honest, he would do anything - _anything_ \- to see him again. So he nodded.

 

* * *

 

Dr. Erskine wiped the sweat from his brow, standing on the lid of a plain pine casket. He’d found the plot easily enough, the small bronze plaque and freshly turned earth having divulged the location of one Steven Grant Rogers. When he had seen the sergeant standing lonely in front of the recruitment post, he’d hoped a deceased comrade would give him a limb or two for Project Rebirth, but instead Sergeant Barnes had given him something even better: a head.

He’d been searching for the right head for what felt like years - the head of a good man. The brain was too delicate to be slopped around from skull to skull, so he was forced to choose incredibly carefully. Any unfortunate casualty would not do, of course - the last thing Erskine wanted was a war criminal with the strength of ten men. From the sergeant’s information, Steven had been a good man. Not in good health - that much was clear - but a man with a strong moral compass and an inability to let evil deeds go unpunished. _That_ was what he needed. Strong bodies came a dime a dozen, especially when you worked with the military, but good men seemed to only grow rarer during war.

Erskine cracked open the coffin lid, the familiar sickly-sweet stench of decay wafting upwards. Inside was a young man in a threadbare suit, his cheeks hollowed as he began to rot. The doctor touched Steve’s face almost tenderly, taking stock of the surprisingly strong chin, the eyelashes resting delicately on greying skin. He could understand why the sergeant missed his friend so, and was willing to sacrifice everything to see him again. His own heart ached in sympathy, but it was too late for his wife and children now - they were but bones, never to walk again. _Asche zu Asche, Staub zu Staub_. But maybe for Sergeant Barnes, it was not too late. Perhaps he could spare somebody else his agony.

Erskine grabbed his bag from the side of the grave and opened it to reveal his surgical tools, glinting in the moonlight. He selected a large saw and began cutting.

 

* * *

 

Steve’s eyes flew open as he sucked in a lungful of air, gasping so loudly it was almost a scream. His back arched as steam hissed around him, his head tipping back against some kind of rest. Closing his eyes, Steve continued to gasp, the sensation of being able to fill his lungs almost alien. It had been so long since he’d last experienced it, but his relief was tainted by an underlying sense of uneasiness.

Steve frowned, his eyes closed. Where was he? There was a hum of machines and murmured voices, and the surface beneath him was chilly and unyielding - not his bed at all. Everything was cold, and he flinched, realizing he was only in his underwear. He moved to hug himself, only to find his arms restrained. Despite his pulls, they refused to yield. Something felt off about his arm, though. Something felt off in general. He felt _healthy_ , in a way he hadn’t felt in years, maybe decades. Other than the persisting chill, he couldn’t feel anything wrong with his body, none of his usual myriads aches and pains plaguing him like they normally did.

 _Now that can’t be right_ , Steve thought to himself. The last thing he could remember was lying in bed, Bucky at his side while he struggled for air. He could remember the world closing in on him and turning everything a muted grey, blurring his vision and muffling his hearing. It had been like nothing existed outside of his little bedroom, a small bubble of space that only he and Bucky inhabited.

“Hello, Steven? Can you hear me?”

A voice snapped Steve back to the present, and he cautiously opened his eyes. An older man was shining a penlight at his eyes, causing him to squint.

“He appears to be responding normally.” The man - a doctor by the looks of him - said with pride, emotion thickening his voice. “Gentlemen - and lady - I give you, Project Rebirth.”

Steve risked a look at his surroundings. All around him were faces of shock and undisguised horror, some of the more senior members of the group even looking angry. He could hear a muffled retch and splatter as somebody vomited, but other than that, the room was dead silent. As far as Steve could tell, everyone was in military uniform or a sharp suit. With a sinking feeling, he realized he wasn’t in the hospital. Shocked silence reigned over the operating theater, and Steve realized that all eyes were on him. He risked a look downwards, and what he saw nearly made his heart stop.

The chest that rose and fell wasn’t his own. It was broad and muscular, with a Y-shaped scar running down the middle of his breastbone. Small incisions littered his stomach, crudely stitched together across his abs like patches on a worn-out coat. The legs were similar, a patchwork of different skin tones covering long bones and muscle. Other than the scars, his body appeared to be in peak physical condition and everything Steve could have dreamed of, except for the fact that it was undeniably not his. By the looks of it, it hadn’t just belonged to one person, but several.

“Oh God,” Steve whimpered. “Oh my God.” He wanted to vomit, to scream, to run away as fast as he could from the horrors attached to his body. Dr. Erskine’s smile faltered, as if he had been expecting applause instead of terrified silence.

“What’s the matter? You asked for a super-soldier. I have given you one, and a way to make the deaths of your soldiers no longer in vain.”

“Their deaths weren’t in vain.” The man who spoke was grizzled and old, wearing a colonel's stars. “We asked you to improve our men, not - cut them up and stick them back together.”

“I - I don’t understand.” Dr. Erskine was sweating now. “I did what you wanted. I conquered death itself! I-”

He was cut short by the sound of a gunshot, the bullet neatly cutting a hole in his forehead and splattering Steve with blood. He flinched at the overwhelmingly loud noise, breath coming quickly as the metallic-smelling liquid dripped down his face. A young woman lowered her gun, face uncompromisingly set.

“I’m so sorry,” she said quietly, tucking her gun away as Steve continued to hyperventilate.

“What’s going on? Was I - am I - Oh God, am I _dead_?”

“I...I think it’s best if you see for yourself,” she said quietly. She took off Steve’s restraints, her hands burning-hot against his skin, and helped him off the table. The crowd silently parted as Steve made his way to the bathroom, one arm slung over her shoulder. Steve could feel the nervous heat radiating off her, as well as the way her shoulders were jerkily heaving as she tried to keep her breathing steady.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “What’s your name?”

“Agent Peggy Carter, British Intelligence.”

“Agent, I-” Steve felt himself at a loss for words. “I-”

“Hush now,” she replied, but it was clear she understood what Steve was trying to say. “Here we are. Take your time.”

Peggy stopped in front of the men’s room and gestured with a hand. Steve entered, taking a deep breath, shoulders heaving, and forced himself to look up from his feet.

The mirror was small and dirty, but it was enough to show the grisly work that had been performed on Steve. A crudely stitched line ran around the base of his neck, attaching his head to some poor soul’s torso. Instead of being small and skinny, it was bulging with muscle, like the rest of his body. His head should’ve looked incongruous on top of such a large torso, but his jaw and neck seemed thicker, more befitting of such a muscular form. However, his skin was pale, far paler than it had even been when he was alive, and his lips were an ugly purple-black instead of a healthy pink. When Steve looked closer, he saw his irises were the sickly yellow of dying leaves, and his hair was masking another scar that circled his forehead like a crown.

Steve gagged reflexively, but found his throat dry and stomach empty. He leaned in closer to examine the scars again, but realized that his breath wasn’t fogging up the glass. As he prodded at the scar, a small glob of dark brown blood oozed between the sutures, half-congealed and gelatinous.

Steve leaned heavily on the sink, closing his eyes in some vain hope that he would wake up. That he would open his eyes and see Bucky, trying to hide his worry behind a smile as he lovingly scolded him for running yet another fever and scaring the daylights out of him. But the horrified looks that the soldiers had given him, the snatches of Erskine’s speech that he caught, revealed the unfortunate truth: he, Steven Rogers, was a member of the living dead.

His fingers clenched - could he even _call_ them his fingers? They belonged to somebody else, some man with a mother and father - maybe a wife, even children -

The sink shattered underneath him, cheap ceramic falling to the floor in shards around his feet. The waterspout sprayed Steve in the face and chest, but he barely noticed. Everything was simply too overwhelming for him, and he wanted nothing more than to go home and be with Bucky. But Bucky wasn’t there either - God knew where he was, most likely off in some war-blasted field in Europe.

“Steven, are you alright?” Peggy knocked on the door. “I heard a crash. May I come in?”

Steve didn’t respond, and Peggy opened the door, taking in the sight of him standing amongst water and ceramic. She froze for a moment, clearly unsure what to do, before gently reaching out a hand.

“Don’t touch me!” Steve flinched backwards, curling in on himself. “Don’t touch me,” he repeated, quieter this time. Peggy lowered her hand, her lips pressed together.

“What are you going to do with me?”

“That’s up to you,” she replied softly.

Steve chuckled. “We both know that’s not true.”

“I’m afraid you’re right.”

Silence reigned for a minute, broken only by the steady dripping of the broken faucet.

“The army - they will want you to stay.”

“Can’t let it get out that you’re bringing people back from the dead.” Steve’s reply was sharp, and he glared at Peggy.

“Steven, you have to believe me - we had no idea what he was doing. If we had - ” Peggy spread her arms helplessly. “This never would’ve happened.”

“Can I die?”

The question took Peggy off-guard. “I...I don’t know.”

Steve sighed heavily. “Guess I’ll find out. When’s the next transport to Europe?”

 

* * *

 

Bucky wrapped his arms closer around himself, cold despite the warmth of the bodies crowded around him. As he shivered, Dugan passed him a blanket.

“Don’t go getting sick now,” he cautioned, “or you’ll be next.”

“Don’t hafta tell me.” Bucky sniffled despite himself, brows drawing together. He probably was sick - illness spread like wildfire in the crowded conditions of the Hydra camp. The ones that were the most obviously ill were taken for Zola’s experiments, and Bucky had never seen any of them return.

But as the days passed, Bucky could feel himself growing sicker, until his ears rang constantly and everything had the blur of fever when he looked at it. It seemed an inevitable conclusion to his illness when two sets of hands grabbed his biceps and frog-marched him out of the cell.

Mercifully, Bucky could hardly tell what Zola was doing to him. He alternated between bouts of shivering and sweating, eyes glazed as he stared off into faraway fever dreams. Sometimes Bucky could feel the pinch of needles in his arms, or see nebulous forms of doctors taking notes and hovering over him. Once he heard a distant screaming, but when he took in a lungful of air, it stopped, and he realized that he was the source. He couldn’t say how long he was down there or what was being pumped into his veins, just repeated his name, rank, and serial number whenever he was coherent enough to do so.

They never asked him for information.

Bucky wasn’t sure how long he had been lying on the cold metal slab - it could have been days or even weeks. A dull explosion jogged him from his normal stupor, and his head lolled as he tried to locate the source. He heard shouting in German, then gunfire and screaming, and a loud thud. The screaming stopped, and a giant of a man burst into the room.

Bucky gaped, sure that he was hallucinating. The man was dressed entirely in black, a balaclava pulled over his head to expose only creepy yellow eyes. They stared back at Bucky in shock, wide and bloodshot.

“Buck…” Bucky couldn’t say for sure if he had imagined the whispered voice calling his name, but next thing he knew, he had been hauled off the table and slung over his masked rescuer’s shoulder. He bounced a little as the man ran through the halls, unable to do more than hang limply. The distant rattle of gunshots echoed around him, but the man didn’t stop, not until they were outside. He gently sat Bucky down on the ground amongst several other wounded or ill men, then ran back into the fray.

“Hey, wait!” Bucky croaked, and stretched out a hand. The man looked over his shoulder, yellow eyes tinged with regret as he ran back into the burning prison camp.

 

* * *

 

The walk back to camp was long and difficult, especially in Bucky’s weakened state. He found himself leaning on one of the other men who had only recently been captured, both of them hobbling back towards their base. They’d found themselves chatting idly in an attempt to normalize the situation, and exchanged what little information they had. The other soldier was named Corporal Evan Batey, and he’d been captured about two weeks after Bucky. Despite their half-hearted attempts at banter, eventually the conversation turned to their rescuer.

“Who is he?” Bucky murmured, jerking his head at the black-clad man leading the way. He hadn’t shed any of his clothing, despite the exertion he’d been undergoing. Bucky himself was sweating quite a bit, but whether it was from the heat or Zola’s experiments, he could not say.

“Nobody knows,” replied the corporal. “He just showed up one day, and everyone just kind of steered around him. He runs solo rescue missions, tearing apart Nazi POW camps like it’s his job. Me, I think he’s looking for somebody. People say he’s deformed, or he’s got some horrible injury or something - he keeps the mask on all the time, never shows his face.”

“Nobody’s seen it? Not even once?”

“Nope. Something’s….wrong about him. My pal Isaac, he said he saw him take wounds no man could survive. That he’s covered in scars.” Evan shivered. “It ain’t natural, that.”

“Hmm.” Bucky lapsed into silence, pondering his rescuer’s back. Maybe he’d gotten injured in the beginning of the war - he’d seen the vets with half their faces missing and uncanny masks to cover the damage. But it didn’t explain the yellow eyes…

Despite himself, Bucky felt a chill trickle down his spine. He knew it was wrong to stare, to be so morbidly fascinated. No doubt that the poor man probably didn’t ask to look the way he did, but Bucky’s curiosity was rapidly getting the better of him. He resolved to track the masked man down again once they arrived back at the camp.

Later that night, the rescued soldiers were exhausted and piled together in tents, but Bucky made an excuse about relieving himself and snuck out before anyone noticed he was missing. He stole quietly through the lines of tents, zigzagging towards where he’d seen the masked man disappear. The improvised barracks were better constructed than the emergency tents, with small private rooms. Bucky pushed the door open, wincing as it creaked, but nobody stirred. He crept forward, to where light shone underneath a crack in the door. As he drew closer, he heard the radio playing softly.

Suddenly, Bucky found himself pushed against the wall, a forearm across his throat so that his toes barely brushed the ground. Despite his best efforts, he could not free himself.

“You shouldn’t be here,” the masked man said, eyes glinting dangerously. He was pinning Bucky hard enough to hold him in place, but not enough to hurt him. Bucky’s eyes flicked downwards, then back up. The man’s arms were bare and mottled with scars, the skin pale in the faint light.

“I just wanted to thank you…” he wheezed, pulling at the arm with his hands. The man let him go and stepped back into the shadows.

“There’s no need - I’m just doing what’s right.” Bucky had clearly woken his quarry, as he was dressed in a tshirt and soft-looking trousers, the balaclava pulled hastily over his head. He made to move away, but Bucky grabbed him by the arm.

“Please - I have to know.”

“I’m sorry,” the man replied softly, but didn’t move.

Bucky chuckled ruefully. “So what, you’re my guardian angel now?” When the man didn’t reply, Bucky shook his head. “God knows Steve could’ve used one."

“Who’s Steve?” The man looked back sharply at Bucky, who smiled sadly.

“My best friend. He - he passed, a few days before I shipped out. Goddamn idiot would fight anyone who as much as kicked a puppy in his field of view.” Even now, the words still stuck in Bucky’s throat like a dry bone.

“I’m sorry. You must miss him a lot.”

“More than anything in the world.”

“What would you give to see him again?”

“Anything,” Bucky replied instantly. “I’d walk through Hell and back again for him, and he knew it too.”

The man said nothing, his fingers curling and uncurling at his side. “You’re right,” he said finally. “I do.” He pulled the balaclava off, revealing a shock of blond hair that Bucky would recognize anywhere. Gaping soundlessly for a minute, Bucky stared at Steve’s scarred face. He turned away immediately, hiding his face in the shadows.

“I’m sorry - I shouldn’t have-” Steve curled around himself, hiding as much of his exposed skin as he could.

“No.” Bucky finally found his voice, and reached forwards towards Steve. He placed a hand on his arm, and Steve flinched, but didn’t turn away. “You know what you should’ve done? You should’ve told me it was you when you found me in that damn Hydra camp.”

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” Steve whispered.

Bucky shook his head, bringing his hand up to cup Steve’s cheek. Steve was a few inches taller than him now, and Bucky found it odd to be staring up into his eyes instead of down. “I wanted to see you again, more than anything in the world. If anything, it’s my fault - I was selfish. I couldn’t stand the thought of another day without you. I swear, Steve, if I had known what that bastard was going to do-”

“Save it, Buck,” Steve said wearily, but he brought up his own hand to meet Bucky’s. “I understand how you must’ve felt. When I was dy- when I was -” He was silent for a moment, as if he couldn’t bring himself to speak the words. “I knew you were there. That’s all I needed then.”

He moved to pull away again, but Bucky grabbed his shoulder, harder this time. “Listen to me, you jerk! I never stopped caring about you, not once! And Christ knows I’m not gonna sit here and listen to your pity party because you think you’re not good enough! You did it in Brooklyn, and you’re doing it now! When are you going to get it through that _thick skull of yours_ that you’ve always been _perfect_ to me?!” Bucky prodded Steve in the chest for emphasis, his voice raised to a whisper-shout. To his surprise, his shoulders were heaving, and the bright rush of anger was making him feel lightheaded. Steve’s face was close to his own now, his eyes shining with something that looked suspiciously like tears.

“Bucky…” he whispered, covering Bucky’s hand with his own. “Do you really mean that?”

“Absolutely,” Bucky replied breathlessly. “Forever.”

Steve leaned forward just a bit, his forehead brushing against Bucky’s. His skin was cold, but Bucky didn’t flinch. How long they stood like that, breaths mingling in the cool night air, until Bucky tentatively leaned forward and brushed his lips against Steve’s.

Even before Steve’s death, they hadn’t kissed in more than a month - Steve had been too sick, and Bucky didn’t want to catch pneumonia right before he shipped out. They moved slowly against each other, Bucky’s thumb caressing Steve’s cheekbone. Steve clung to him desperately, his hands wrapped around Bucky’s wrists like it was the only thing keeping him whole. Pressing himself fully against Bucky, Steve basked in his warmth, in the steady _thump-thump_ of his heart. Bucky drew back slightly, but moved his forehead back to Steve’s, eyes closed.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “Thank you for coming back.”

Steve half-smiled, his eyelashes fluttering against Bucky’s fingers. “What are we going to do now?”

Bucky shrugged. “I know a few guys…”

 

* * *

 

“Y’know, we’re famous now,” Dugan said conversationally as he passed Bucky a flask. “The Krauts think we’re demons or something.”

“They call Steve ‘ _der Schwarze Kapitän_ ’ - the Black Captain,” Falsworth added. “Rumor has it you were summoned from Hell itself by a group of pagans who were hiding in the military, and we’re your possessed minions.”

Steve ducked his head bashfully, but he was grinning nonetheless. “You can’t be serious.”

“Of course not - anyone who laid eyes on you would see you’re as pale as a fishbelly,” Gabriel joked. Steve’s lips pressed together, his jovial mood suddenly evaporating. Bucky shot Gabriel a look, and the other man winced apologetically.

“Sorry, Steve, I didn’t-”

Bucky slapped Steve on the back conspiratorially. “Nah, you should’ve seen him back in Brooklyn - he’d get burnt redder than a lobster if he so much as looked out the window!”

Steve laughed, and the pleasant mood returned to the gathering around the campfire. By now, all of the Commandos knew about Steve’s unique circumstances, but they never discussed it, even when Steve wasn’t around. He and Bucky were always careful in their choice of words, always dividing his life into “back home” and “out here”, sometimes just “before” and “after”. It was an unspoken agreement; one that all the Commandos adhered to.

“This mission tomorrow,” Morita began. “Getting onto the train. It won’t be easy. HQ isn’t even sure if Zola’s onboard.”

“We have to try,” replied Steve, drawing his knees up to his chest. “If we have a chance to stop Hydra, we have to take it now, whatever the cost.”

Bucky nodded silently in agreement and mimicked Steve’s position. “We have to,” he echoed, memories of his time in captivity sending an icy trickle down his spine.

Later that night, Bucky curled against Steve, his head pillowed on his chest. Steve’s heartbeat was sluggish but steady, maybe half the speed of an ordinary man’s, but its constant thump reassured Bucky nonetheless. They were sharing both a tent and a bedroll, the other Commandos similarly crammed together in their own tents.

“Steve,” he whispered quietly. “You awake?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Just thinking.” Bucky placed his hand on Steve’s chest, watching it rise and fall. “I don’t wanna lose you again.”

“You won’t. I heal fast now - stuff that used to knock me on my ass doesn’t even bother me,” Steve chuckled.

Bucky scowled. “Don’t even joke about it - I’m serious.”

“So’m I.” Steve rolled over to face Bucky, their noses mere inches apart. Idly, he tucked a piece of hair behind Bucky’s ear, and Bucky pressed his cheek into Steve’s hand. “I promise, Buck, no matter where you go, I’ll be right behind you.”

“Till the end of the line?”

“Till the end of the line,” Steve vowed, before tenderly pressing his lips against Bucky’s. Bucky smiled into the kiss and tucked his head under Steve’s chin.

“ ‘Night, Steve.”

“ G’night, Buck.”  

 

* * *

 

Steve, Bucky, and Peggy careened through the hangar, tires squealing as they pursued the _Valkyrie_. Peggy’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel as she stared ahead with fierce determination, closing the distance between their vehicle and the Hydra ship.

“Keep her steady!” Steve called out as he stood up in the seat. Beside him, Bucky made to do the same, but Steve pushed on his shoulder.

“I’m not leaving you!” Bucky yelled over the roar of the engines, but Steve shook his head.

“You and Peggy need to destroy the base - we can’t leave any trace of Hydra behind! Trust me, Buck, I can do this!”

Bucky placed his hand over Steve’s, looking away from the immense plane in front of him. “You better come back!” He could feel Steve’s hand squeeze his own, just barely.

“That’s kind of what I do now!”

Steve leaped onto the plane, and Peggy slammed on the brakes. The jeep skidded to a halt just feet from the sheer dropoff, and Bucky watched the plane rapidly shrink into a speck of black in the blue sky.

“Come back,” he whispered again, so quietly Peggy couldn’t hear it. Bucky pressed his lips together, then turned to Peggy. Initially, he’d been a bit wary of her, but she’d quickly proven herself to be a capable fighter, and Bucky trusted her just as much as Steve did. Any feelings of jealousy he might’ve had over her relationship with Steve had evaporated when he’d accidentally walked in on her and one the female radio operators, and since then, they’d been silent co-conspirators.

“Steve’s right - we need to destroy the base.” Peggy’s voice was resolute, but she was clearly just as worried as Bucky. “We should get back to the rest of the Commandos and start planting explosives.”

Bucky nodded, his eyes still fixed on the horizon. “Radio ahead and make sure everyone else gets evacuated.”

Gunning the engine, Peggy turned their jeep around, and they set about their grisly work. It wasn’t long before the entire base was laced with TNT at key points and all the Hydra soldiers dead or captured. However, Bucky couldn’t bring himself to leave, and he made his way to the radio control tower. He flicked through the frequencies until he heard the crash and shouts that could only be Steve.

“Steve! Steve, can you hear me?” There was no reply, and Bucky wiggled the tuner again. “Steve, it’s Bucky! Do you copy?”

“I’m here,” Steve said suddenly, and Bucky’s eyes widened.

“Steve, what happened?”

“Schmidt’s gone,” Steve panted. “Some kind of light - I’m not sure what happened. There’s bombs on here, Buck. They’re targeting home.”

“Well, then what are you waiting for? Get your ass back here and we can defuse them!”

“There’s no time!” Steve’s eyes flicked between the readouts, but the controls were far beyond him. Only the joysticks in front of him made sense. “I have to put it in the water, Buck.”

“Steve, there has to be another way!” Bucky begged him. “Can’t you jettison the bombs?”

Steve shook his head, before remembering Bucky couldn’t see him. The Valkyrie’s radio was far clearer than any he’d heard before, and it sounded like Bucky was in the room with him. “The fallout would carry right onto the mainland - I can’t risk detonating them.”

“But you’ll die.” Bucky’s voice broke on the last word, like he was holding back tears.

“I already did it once - it’s not so bad.” Despite his bravado, Steve could feel anxiety churning his gut. He wasn’t ready to give up his life yet, not when he’d only just gotten it back. He wasn’t ready to give up Bucky’s easy smiles, the way he toyed with Steve’s hair in the morning when they were both only half-awake, his cackling laughter every time Hydra soldiers ran screaming from Steve’s towering silhouette.

“C’mon, Steve, I still owe you one. Remember on the train?” Bucky’s voice was harsh with unshed tears. “I still gotta save your scrawny ass before this shitshow ends.”

Not trusting himself to speak, Steve laughed instead. “You already did.”

A thunderous crash echoed through the radio room, and Bucky’s hands gripped the table so hard his knuckles went white. “Steve? _Steve!?_ ”

But there was no reply. Beside him, Peggy sniffled quietly, as Bucky stared at the speaker like it bring Steve back. When there was no reply, he tore it from its wires and threw it across the room with an animalistic scream. Tears were dripping unashamedly down his face now as he stood in the middle of the room, shoulders heaving with anger and despair.

“Where did he go down?” He asked, voice hoarse.

Wiping tears from her eyes, Peggy checked the radar. “Just above the Arctic circle.”

“We have to find him.” Bucky’s fist clenched. “ _I_ have to find him.”

 

* * *

 

The Hydra soldiers prowled through the Arctic, small blotches of black against the dazzling white snowfield. One of them stumbled over a mound of snow. Feeling something solid, he called the others over. They pawed at the snow with gloved hands, revealing a frozen form.

Bucky was curled up in a tight ball, fingers and nose black with frostbite. He was no longer shivering, too deep in the clutches of hypothermia to feel cold. Blinking against the sun, he stared up blankly at the Hydra soldier. The soldier grinned under his balaclava, before raising a radio to his mouth.

“Tell Zola we have found one of his former prisoners.”

**Author's Note:**

> Steve starts off dead. He gets better, except then Bucky thinks he's dead again. Also gratuitous gore when describing Steve.
> 
> Also, the title comes from the original Frankenstein novel's subtitle.


End file.
